


not appeasement (i couldn't get the boy to kill me)

by despitethepast



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew treading carefully, Brief Reference to Past Sexual Abuse, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Emotional awareness, M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Relationship Study, vague mentions of andrew's past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27833863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/despitethepast/pseuds/despitethepast
Summary: A rewrite of Andrew and Neil's first kiss, as told from Andrew's perspective + some insight into Andrew's "I hate you"This was the fear of heights, the thrill of standing at the cliff's edge and the terror of stepping off of it.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 10
Kudos: 138





	not appeasement (i couldn't get the boy to kill me)

It flashed through Andrew’s mind like a film on a reel: the hollow ache in Neil’s voice a reflection of that familiar blackhole, of knowing his dreams were impossible, but wanting them anyway -- as if hope would ever be anything other than a bullet to dig out of his chest. Neil saying, _I’m tired of being nothing_.

That quiet desperation frayed at all the things Andrew had tried to bite down. His hand dropped, knuckles pushing against the concrete. He turned towards Neil, his pulse skipping a beat as Neil’s gaze searched him. Recognition of that unspoken understanding flickered in Neil's eyes, and Andrew felt suddenly exposed, unbalanced, as though he’d inadvertently given ground in some implicit and incalculable way. 

“You’re a Fox. You’re always going to be _nothing_ ,” Andrew said, his flat tone at odds with the frustration smoldering under his skin. He stubbed his cigarette out, acutely aware of the way Neil’s body was turned towards him, of how badly he wanted to close the distance between them, to press Neil into the concrete and kiss him until he forgot all the things he couldn't have.

A shiver, an old current of fear. 

“I hate you,” Andrew said, because Neil’s hang-ups and inhibitions were being steadily dismantled by the Foxes, because Andrew himself trusted a pathological liar with a fake name more than anyone else on the team, because Neil still dared to hope for a future playing Court, because Neil hadn’t hit rock bottom, and was staying afloat whereas Andrew had long ago gone underwater. _I hate you_ , needing Neil to understand that he didn’t have anything deeper to offer. _I hate you_ , needing Neil to know that anything that was going to happen between them wasn’t being given. or taken away, didn’t hinge on filling a hole in his chest or relieving an aching in his stomach, had nothing to do with appeasement or affiliation or protection or survival. _I hate you_ , because the word ‘love’, as Andrew had known it, was only an echo chamber of past voices, hot breath against his ears, blood down his back -- Drake’s cruel: _I know you love this, you stupid fucking whore_ ; the voices of other foster parents, almost worse because their cruelty wasn't even about exerting power, trying to justify themselves as they murmured: _I love you_ even as as they violated him in every sense of the word.

“Nine percent of the time you don’t,” Neil said.

“Nine percent of the time I don’t want to kill you,” Andrew corrected. “I always hate you.”

The words were a shell, fragile glass, but Andrew needed the illusion of distance. 

“Every time you say that I believe you a little less,” Neil said. 

“No one asked you.” This was _Todestrieb_ , the death drive. This was the fear of heights, the thrill of standing at the cliff's edge and the terror of stepping off of it. 

It was inexplicably easy to close the distance between them. Andrew caught Neil’s face in his hands. The impatience that had been building in Andrew’s chest for days crumbled away as his mouth crashed into Neil's. Andrew was sliding, skidding on black ice. He didn't know how to be tentative or soft. His mouth was raw and urgent and hungry against Neil's lips, the intensity of his frustration deepening into something headier and harder. He shifted his hand, a finger pressed to the underside of Neil’s jaw. He had to know if Neil’s pulse surged against his fingertips when Andrew was touching Neil, or just when he was lying. 

__

Neil’s hand lifted, at first as if to touch Andrew’s face, but then twisted into the sleeve of Andrew’s coat instead. Andrew hesitated, his eyes opening. He eased back from the kiss. He wanted to feel Neil lean into him like he had when they were standing near the the driver’s side door of the Maserati. But Neil wasn't leaning forwards now, and Andrew remembered all the times he had taken it in silence, his body betraying him again and again, unable to move or to speak. This wasn’t that -- Neil wasn’t frozen. But there was indecision, some inner conflict that Andrew couldn’t ignore. 

__

“Tell me no,” Andrew said, searching Neil's expression. Neil’s eyes were startled and bright. The hand at the sleeve of Andrew’s coat tightened. Part of Andrew wanted to interpret that as a _yes_. He could almost tell himself that Neil's response to him, the way he had come apart under his mouth, was implicit consent.

__

It would be so easy to take what he wanted. Neil was _right there_ , warm and flushed and unimpressed with all of Andrew’s empty threats. 

__

“Let go,” Andrew said, feeling a bit sick with himself. He tried to bury the shame, but he couldn’t, not with the sight of Neil's breathless confusion laid bare in front of him. “I’m not doing this with you right now.” 

__

Andrew pushed Neil’s hand away from his jacket sleeve, suddenly afraid that Neil wouldn’t, but Neil’s arm fell away easily, unresisting. Andrew took a deep breath and leaned back, angling his face towards the horizon. He couldn’t mask the tension in his body, but he kept his expression carefully blank. He felt Neil’s weighted gaze, the unspoken questions. That made it worse, somehow. Andrew lit a cigarette, took one drag, and immediately crushed it into the concrete. His hands were steady, but he felt shaky inside. He lit another cigarette, still unable to look at Neil.

__

Andrew ran the statistics through his head, because the numbers were safer than the memories. He recalled the passages that Bea had highlighted and underlined. He kept seeing the one line, the words scientific and detached and underlined in blue ink: _when subjects who had been victims become perpetrators of the same abuse_. 

__

Andrew closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for the tide of fear and confusion to subside. 

__

Neil lifted the cigarette from his fingers. Andrew let him take it, his hand falling open. He brought his knees up to his chest and watched as Neil ground the cigarette into the concrete. There was a beat of silence. Andrew wanted to get up and walk away, but he forced himself to stay, to wait. 

__

“Why not?” Neil finally asked, apprehensively, as if against his better judgement.

__

“Because you’re too stupid to to tell me no.” _Because I should know better than this_.

__

“And you don’t want me to tell you yes?”

__

_No. ___

__

“This isn’t yes. This is a nervous breakdown. I know the difference, even if you don’t.” Andrew dug a hand into his lower lip, as though he could erase the memory of Neil’s mouth. He wished Neil would stop looking at him. His throat tightened, but he forced the words out anyway. “I won’t be like them. I won’t let you let me be.”

__

__

__

Neil blinked at him. Andrew flicked one of the discarded cigarettes off the roof, keeping his expression neutral, hoping that Neil would read between the lines and understand that the words were neither an apology or an excuse, but a ball rolled in Neil’s direction. Neil could return it or not. 

__

This wasn't about rejecting or accepting what Andrew had put between them. Andrew had asked a question, but Neil didn't owe him an answer. It was up to Neil to decide if he wanted to figure it out, to make up his mind one way or the other. Until then, Andrew would back the hell off and make no suggestion of it again. 

__

**Author's Note:**

> "I couldn’t get the boy to kill me,  
> but I wore his jacket for the longest time."
> 
> \- Richard Siken


End file.
